#achille vc: i don't like paris *doesn't let anyone else hold them*

[sealrock]

19. taken

no content warnings word count: 883 words

"… Fuck."

Achille tugged at his hair in his growing frustration and panic—the house had been overturned, with any and every nook and cranny small enough for a baby to trap themselves in checked thoroughly. The state of disarray was from him frantically searching for his tiny charge. All he did was close his eye for a second (it was an hour), on the couch, knowing for certain that Paris was safe in her wooden playpen, the lock secured to keep the squirmy troublemaker in place.

Thankfully, she didn't cry when her parents took their leave. Achille would've thought Hector would be the one to loathe the thought of leaving her, but it was Andromache who had to be dragged out the door. Paris thought nothing of her constant reassurances that they would be right back as she teethed on Achille's chaplet, the cool metal cross offering relief for her irritated gums. Achille groaned to himself thinking about the inevitable teeth marks that would disfigure the necklace.

Hector and Andromache could walk through the door right now, which was something Achille wasn't looking forward to. He was used to Andromache's bursts of anger, but he only witnessed Hector's ugly side once when Achille mistook rare and fragile plants for weeds in his herb garden. It was something the redhead didn't want to experience again. With Achille on watch duty, the couple set out that morning to gather supplies down at the village market, though Hector must've got sidetracked with something or other because a simple twenty-minute trip turned into a whole day excursion.

Achille had their trust to look after the infant, but after a long night of dealing with a fussy and overly tired Paris who thought it was a great idea to keep them all awake by refusing to sleep (the knot at the back of his head from Andromache throwing a book at him for his offhand comment still throbbed). While her parents were no worse for wear, the two of them infuriatingly being morning people, Achille was feeling it today, his tense attitude and short temper caused by lack of sleep.

It's not like Achille hadn't dealt with sleepless nights before, it was only recently that his nightmares began to go away. But when the mind is running on fumes, it begins conjuring up scenarios not based in reality. It was during his third sweep of the house that he noticed something odd; the bay window next to Paris' playpen was slightly ajar.

Did someone sneak in to snatch the child? The front and back doors were locked and bolted, the upstairs untouched. If someone, or something, had taken Paris, they were gonna wish they were never born once Achille was through with them. His present crankiness aside, Achille would burn the world to ashes if something happened to Paris. He looked out the window for any signs of an intruder, be it footprints on the ledge or fingerprints on the glass. So absorbed in his hunt for an imaginary kidnapper, Achille almost missed the telltale squeak of a mischievous infant as he rushed back inside.

His bare feet came to a sudden stop on the rug. Panic quickly morphed into annoyance as he slowly opened the window to look down; there she was, nestled atop a prickly firethorn bush, Paris regarded Achille's glower with a wide-eyed stare.

"You little shite, how did you get out here?"

As if she could respond to him, not yet old enough to talk. Little noises came from her mouth as Achille lifted her up and out of the bush, the man surprised to see no skin pricks or other signs of injury on her, her baby clothes pristine. He couldn't guess how long she was out there, at least it wasn't hot outside and Paris was underneath the shade of the house. Paris reached up to tug Achille's pierced ear, her grip strong and tight as she clawed on the silver jewelry. She ripped out an earring once, and Achille's ear was nearly healed from that incident.

"Oi, none of that today. You gave me a scare I almost died. You wouldn't want me to die, right?"

Paris blinked at him as he gently removed her offending hand, the baby instead shoving it in her mouth as she hummed. Achille flopped onto the couch with a sigh, he'll clean up the mountain of mess later, allowing Paris the opportunity to crawl over to his face with her slobbery hand. If she couldn't get to his ears, she would tug at his stubbled cheeks, the bristled sensation always getting delighted giggles from her. Achille could only cringe at cold baby spit on his chin, trapped under the pudgy eight-month-old as he stretched out on the couch.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want. You're gonna miss me when I'm gone—"

Curious sticky fingers hooked themselves into Achille's mouth. His agitated spluttering sent Paris into a laughing fit, her squeals growing louder at his look of irritation. Nonetheless, Achille never let go of the infant, his sturdy hands securing her body on top of his chest. They stayed like that for a while before eventually falling asleep. Achille would deal with Andromache's barrage of questions later, he's just relieved his baby was safe and sound.